refilled the jug, and prepared to leave the

scene.

At this juncture Heinrich stepped forth, to the surprise of the girls, who pressed toward the tank, prepared to deluge the intruder should he prove to be an enemy. The latter, however, remained at a respectful distance, bared his head, and addressed them thus:

"I was below at Vicovaro, and seeing your hamlet, of which I have heard many wonderful things, nestling here, the desire possessed me to ascend and to see for myself. I am fatigued, hungry, and thirsty. I pray you, tell me of a house in which I may find shelter for a night. I am a stranger and come from a distance; from a land in which the people speak a different tongue from that spoken here. But I like to be among you. I have never seen such pretty maidens, not even in Rome. I must tell you that I am an artist. If you had a church, I would paint you a Madonna."

Heinrich delivered this speech slowly and impressively, lest he might not be understood. As, however, he spoke at the same time with his eyes, and as his intelligent face, his light curls, and his blue eyes were sufficient to inspire even such shy creatures of the wilderness with confidence, it may be presupposed that he would be cared for without any difficulty in Saracenesco.

The girls stared at him with an astonishment equal to his. Then they put their heads together and consulted.

"With us!"

In short, each girl wished to take the stranger to her miserable hut. They almost quarreled about it. Then, the tall, queenly one, who had not spoken during this scene, exclaimed: "We will receive the stranger."

Heinrich felt the blood rush to his cheeks, and his heart pulsate rapidly. All heads were turned toward the speaker; no opposition was offered, though one said, more in surprise than anger or scorn: "You, Nubia ?»

The girl made no reply. She looked at Heinrich and said politely: "If you like, I will conduct you to my mother's house."

If he liked! He could reply to the beautiful woman's words only by a nod and a smile. She did not seem to have expected an answer, but steadied her jug upon her head, crossed her arms, and, preceding him, set out.

Her companions, in more or less excitement at the strange occurrence, dispersed. An "Inglese" in Saracenesco! It did not, though, occur to one of them to rail at the readiness of proud, austere Nubia to conduct the stranger to her mother's house or to make any malicious comments upon it. They simply wondered what the two women would give their guest for his supper. For the mother was a widow, the poorest in the village, and Nubia's brother but a boy who tended sheep; so there was no one to descend to the Sabine valleys and the Roman plains in the summer time to earn money.

While the maidens were speculating if Nubia's mother would be able, with the assistance of her neighbors, to bake a frittata, or if the stranger would have to satisfy his hunger on oil soup, Heinrich walked behind Nubia as if in a dream. He was convinced that he had never seen anyone so handsome, and could not remove his eyes from the tall form, which, with its load, went unflinchingly on.

Occasionally his eyes caught a glimpse of a face of the purest oval; from under her head-dress gleamed her luxuriant hair, of such a warm golden hue that it seemed to the enamored Nazarene as if the glow of the setting sun had fallen on that lovely head. He was oblivious of the fact that she was poorly clad and did not wear a single ornament. It was night before they reached Saracenesco; his peculiar surroundings and the handsome form before him seemed to Heinrich like ghostly shad

ows.

On their arrival Nubia waited for him only so far as to slacken her pace; he reached her side, but he had to exercise great care, for the streets were of rough rock and there was not a foot of level ground. Now they climbed an almost perpendicular hill, now they picked their way along the rocky road. The huts on both sides resembled caverns, in the majority of which the door served at the same time as a window. In several, fires burned, lighting the low, small rooms and the shabby furniture with lurid brightness. Nearly all the inhabitants were at their doors, and those who were within came out, for the news of the arrival of a stranger had spread like wildfire. Heinrich did not know where to look, at what to be surprised. All was so strange,― the indescribable wildness and beauty of the spot, the motley, fantastic forms, the number of lovely human faces! He saw principally women, children, and aged

men.

Nubia stopped at one of the last cottages, and said: "My mother and I live here. You are welcome." She took her waterjug from her head and called into the cottage: "Mother, here is a stranger who wishes to see our village, and who did not know where he could spend the night. I bade him come with me; do you welcome him?"

The mother, a handsome, dark-complexioned matron, from whom the daughter had inherited those lovely eyes, immediately stepped out. Deprivation was visible on her face, poverty in her dress. She greeted Heinrich hospitably. "My daughter did right to bring you to our house; you will bring it good luck."

Heinrich entered. When he looked around for Nubia, he saw her outside, conversing with her companions. The whole street was filled with women and girls, and the children pushed their curly black heads through the open door, one face browner, more beautiful than the others.

which a glimpse of the evening sky was visible. "This is my brother's, Mastorre's, room; he tends sheep; it is unoccupied when he is away, for I sleep with mother. I will fetch some water so that you can wash the dust from your face and hands; it has been a warm day." She set the lamp on a chest, which was the only article of furniture in the room besides the miserable bedstead.

Heinrich glanced around the bare chamber. "Could I spend days, weeks, months here ? » He was still occupied with this thought when the girl returned with her jug and a linen towel, saying: "The water is fresh from the cistern; when you have washed, the meal will be ready; you are doubtless hungry. Our neighbors wanted to bring my mother all sorts of things that she might place before you a more bountiful repast, for we are poor people. But I begged mother to give you of our food. You would rather have it so, I know, and, depend upon it, you shall not suffer from hunger."

With these words she smiled and looked so beautiful that Heinrich forgot to reply until he saw her eyes fixed inquiringly upon him, when he hastened to assure her:

"Of course, I had rather have it so! Still I am sorry to cause you and your mother trouble in addition to the usual work, although, I must confess, it pleases me beyond measure to have been asked by you to accompany you to your mother's house, and that I feel quite at home with you."

It was the first time he had spoken to her: he did not raise his eyes, and there was a trace of embarrassment in his voice.

The maiden gravely replied: "The other girls disputed as to which one should take you, for each would gladly have favored you. But it was better for them that I should ask you to be our guest. They all have fathers, brothers, or cousins, who have gone to the Roman fields to harvest. They might not like to have their women entertain a stranger during their absence; you might therefore have caused trouble to those who meant well to you, and you would not have liked that. My brother is still a boy, and none of the absent can concern themselves in our affairs; therefore you can bring to this house nothing but joy. Once more, welcome!"

The young Nazarene was somewhat disappointed at this explanation, and with a

He waited almost anxiously to see what reply would be made to his bold speech, and he could have laughed with delight when she said quite calmly, without any embarrassment, "I like you very much. Now I must help mother."

"Ah, Nubia," he began,- but she had left the room.

When Heinrich entered the living-room, he found that supper, consisting of hot cakes fried in oil, ricotto, and endive salad, awaited him.

Nubia served the guest, who, notwithstanding the peculiarity of the Sabine viands, felt as content as if he were dining at a king's board. The mother likewise spared no pains to show the stranger that he was truly welcome.

Heinrich's mood became more and more pensive. He would rather have remained silent and have feasted his eyes upon the beautiful girl before him, but he forced himself to talk, were it only to hear Nubia's voice reply, that voice so calm and deep, to which he could have listened always. He therefore proceeded to ask many questions of his hostesses, addressing most of them to the mother, but receiving replies from the daughter. In reply to a question about the men of Saracenesco, Nubia said:

We

"We women are alone almost the entire year, for the men leave in March. First they work in the olive groves and vineyards. That is a good time for them and for us, for they have light work and there is no fever. In May, too, when they make hay, all goes well. But as soon as the wheat harvest begins and hot days come, misfortune commences for us poor people; then we suffer pain and anguish. would gladly cut grain with the men, like the women in other places; but it is our custom to remain up here and to descend very rarely to the valley. The men fare hard. They live in tents which they pitch where they are going to harvest, and before they are aware of it the fever attacks them. With the fever upon them they have to cut grain from the rising of the sun to its setting. Many die in the fields, many are taken to the hospitals in Rome, yet when they return they are all ill. My grandfather and my father came home ill every year; both died at

home of the fever. We are accustomed to this and cannot help it. The Virgin protect us! To-morrow is Sunday and we pray for the men who work in the fields. What good will it do? In November, when the ground is ploughed and sown, our men return. The women go to meet them at a point from which they can overlook the road. There we have a Cross erected; in that place all stand and watch to see which of those who went away return. As long as my father lived, my mother and I stood under the Cross every year; now that he is gone, we shall not stand there until my brother becomes a man. He will go away with the others, and he will surely be attacked by the fever. But we cannot help it, can we, mother?"

Heinrich sighed. This was terrible: he had not suspected anything of the kind, and how indifferently they spoke of it! Merely for the sake of making some remark, he said: "All will be better some day!"

Apathetically the mother answered, "It is not so bad; we are used to it, signor." Heinrich changed the subject by asking, "So the women of Saracenesco occasionally descend the mountain ?" The elder woman nodded assent. "Several times annually, to Bardella or Vicovaro. There we buy oil, flour, salt, and whatsoever we need. Then we go to mass, confession, and communion, that our poor souls may not suffer so long in purgatory."

Nubia interrupted harshly: "The men who die in the fields go to purgatory without holy communion; we also might as well remain there, for intercession is a difficult matter; we understand nothing about it."

Heinrich thought: "She does not seem pious," and then he asked her what the women of Saracenesco did all the year round.

"There is enough to do. During the healthy season we gather fagots a half day, for in winter it is cold here and snow falls. Then the wolves come, and the men have to watch that the beasts do not carry off our sheep and goats."

"Have you ever seen a wolf?" asked Heinrich.

"Of course," said the mother. "She has her father's rifle, and when wolves are heard in the neighborhood she watches the stable. Last winter a young wolf

stole one of our goats. In the middle of the night she followed the beast, rescued its prey, and shot the wolf. She got eight scudi in Bardella for the skin. So we had material to spin and weave all winter."

With sparkling eyes Heinrich turned toward the young huntress, but Nubia said calmly: "That was nothing wonderful. A child could shoot a beast if it had

a rifle.»

When the meal was finished the women cleared the table and Nubia extinguished the fire and brought her spinning-wheel. Heinrich longed for paper and pencil that he might sketch her magnificent form. Mutely he sat by, watching the spinner, who turned her thread with quiet composure.

The two women had scarcely begun their work when the neighbors arrived, each with her spinning. They greeted the stranger pleasantly, began their work, and soon felt quite at home with the agreeable guest who could tell them so many and such strange things: of Rome, of Saint Peter, of the Madonna of Saint Agostino, of the carnival fêtes at the Piazza Navona, of the October celebrations at the Porta del Populo. They were surprised. He told them of the English and German artists, of the ateliers in the Via Sistina and the Plaza Barberina, or the Sabine, Albanian, and Volscian models on the Spanish Steps. This they did not comprehend. They had never heard of an artist, much less seen one.

"Look at me, then," said Heinrich. All looked at him, most of them timidly. Nubia dropped her spindle and gazed at him in terror. Heinrich laughed.

"I will show you what an artist is tomorrow. Nor shall I harm anyone. You may believe me." And he looked at them so honestly, with his bright, happy, blue eyes, that all believed him. Nubia alone remained pensive.

Heinrich, seeing her in this mood,

begged for a saltarello. Without any hesitation the maids complied, and one produced a tambourine. Nubia was urged to dance, but she could not be persuaded. However, she snatched the tambourine and beat it in a passionate rhythm. Soon all the girls were seized with the desire to dance, so that the spectators had to retreat to the streets. Nubia stood in the midst of the dancers, untiringly beating the tambourine.

Much too quickly to suit Heinrich did the mothers stop the dance and send their daughters home. Not one of the girls failed to hold out her hand to the stranger and to call to him, "Until we meet again!"

When Heinrich was left with his hostesses he asked Nubia why she had not danced. It would have given him such pleasure!

She answered gravely: "The others wished to show off before you, and as you are our guest it would not have been proper for me to do so. Some other time I will dance a saltarello for you, out by the cistern under the tree. You may then dance with me."

"If you will teach me." "Gladly. Good night!" "Good night! To-morrow meet again!"

"To-morrow."

we shall

She gave him the lamp and he retired. In his room he stepped to the window and gazed for a long time out into the night,at the stars as they twinkled above the rocky summits. When one fell, instead of wishing he sighed deeply. Then he smiled and murmured: "Nubia, Nubia! I am so happy, so happy." Suddenly a sense of fatigue stole over him. Without disrobing he extinguished the light and flung himself upon the bed.

He fell asleep and dreamed of his Mary Magdalen. But it was Nubia whom he saw in his dreams,- Nubia as the penitent sinner!

He awoke with a start.

A

NEW book by Prof. W. E. H. Lecky bears the somewhat odd title, "The Map of Life: Conduct and Character." Perhaps the word "chart » would have been a better selection, as the book depicts the deeps and shallows, the headlands, bays, and beacons encountered in the voyage of Life. Beginning with a discussion of the pursuit of happiness, its attainment, and the relation of morals to happiness, the author proceeds to review the influences which govern the conduct of life, the formation of character, and the morality (or lack of it) of the individual, the family, the merchant, the learned professions, the soldier, the politician and statesman, and the Church.

The author lays especial stress upon the necessity of a life of action based upon high ideals. He says:

"A strong sense of the obligation of a full, active, and useful life is the best safeguard both of individual and national morals at a time when the dissolution or enfeeblement of theological beliefs is disturbing the foundations on which most current moral teaching has been based. . . . It is by the active pursuit of an immediate duty that the vista of future duties becomes most clear. . . . A public opinion which discourages idleness and places high the standard of public duty is especially valuable in an age when the tendency to value wealth, and to measure dignity by wealth, has greatly increased, and when wealth in some of its most important forms has become wholly dissociated from special duties.»

He points out the grave dangers arising from the multiplication of large fortunes which are dissociated from special and definite duties. In this class he ranks incomes derived from national, provincial, or municipal debts, or from shares or debentures in great commercial and industrial undertakings, in which the stockholders have little or no practical control over or interest in those from whom their fortunes are derived. He deplores the luxurious idleness engendered by the possession of such incomes, and especially the consequent ostentation of wealth which has such a vulgarizing and demoralizing influence upon society. On this subject he says:

"Another . . . instance of the worship of false ideals is to be found in the fierce competition of luxury and ostentation which characterizes the more wealthy cities of Europe and

America. It is no exaggeration to say that in a single festival in London or New York sums are often expended in the idlest and most ephemeral ostentation which might have revived industry, or extinguished pauperism, or alleviated suffering over a vast area.»

While recognizing the argument which justifies lavish expenditure on the score of its tending to give employment and distribute wealth, the author points out the ruinous effects of competition in this line by those whose means are insufficient to stand the strain; and he also dwells on the exclusion from social intercourse of many who are admirably fitted to adorn society, but whose incomes debar them from its pleasures.

"Nor are these its only consequences. Wealth which is expended in multiplying and elaborating real comforts, or even in pleasures which produce enjoyment at all proportionate to their cost, will never excite serious indignation. It is the colossal waste of the means of human happiness in the most selfish and most vulgar forms of social advertisement and competition that gives a force and almost a justification to anarchical passions which menace the whole future of our civilization. It is such things that stimulate class hatreds and deepen class divisions, and if the law of opinion does not interfere to check them they will one day bring down upon the society that encourages them a signal and well-merited retribution.»

On the subject of war Mr. Lecky is of opinion that its danger lies "less in the intrigues of statesmen than in deeply seated international jealousies and antipathies, and in sudden, volcanic outbursts of popular passion." He deplores the facts that after eighteen hundred years' profession of the creed of peace Christendom is an armed camp, and that preparations for war and activity in the invention of instruments of destruction were never so general in a time of peace. He believes that the tiger passions and avaricious cravings of mankind are only held in check by

-"the financial embarrassments of the great nations; their profound distrust of one another; the vast cost of modern war; the gigantic commercial disasters it inevitably entails; the extreme uncertainty of its issue; and the utter ruin that may follow defeat.»

Yet he admits that war is not always or wholly evil; that sometimes it is due to some strong wave of philanthropic feel